Bend me, Break me Mold me, Make me
by Jayden Shay
Summary: Soulmateverse; Tony and Loki are kidnapped by some mad scientist and experimented on, in the hope of artificially creating a soulmate bond. Neither of them are very happy with this plan. Reluctant, but eventual Tony/Loki, torture/mindf-ckery.
1. Chapter 1

He wakes slowly - groggy, like he's fighting his way up from the bottom of a very deep well. It's difficult to open his eyes at first, and Tony doesn't fight it. With every growing awareness of his body he's less and less enthused to return to the land of the living just yet. This is either the mother of all hangovers, he thinks dimly - and even the thought hurts - or he got hit by a truck. Possibly more than once.

When the dark opens up to swallow him once more, he doesn't fight it.

-

He's jolted awake by a sharp jab to the ribs, a hissed "Get _up_." Tony jack-knifes up, blinking quickly at the light stabbing him in the eyeballs. It's not a great idea. His head spins, and nausea overtakes him almost instantly.

"Ugh," He groans, raising a hand to his head in an attempt to stop the spinning. There's someone standing over him - he must have passed out on a floor somewhere; time to fucking quit drinking - but Tony ignores them for the moment. He's Tony fucking Stark. Whoever it is can wait until he gets his head on a little straighter.

"You have been unconscious already for-" The voice starts and it sounds vaguely familiar, but then whatever was in Tony's stomach is forcing its way up and Tony turns his head just in time to vomit all over the floor beside him. Dimly, he hears the voice sneer at him, something that sounds an awful lot like "disgusting."

He feels a lot better for it instantly though, the world - his memories - coming in a bit more clearly. Tony glances around. He's in some sort of cell, but it's much too... sterile looking, he decides, to be in any prison he knows of. It's unremarkable, but then - there's the question of his cell mate.

Tony looks up finally, and regrets it instantly. It's Loki - Thor's brother, the homicidal maniac he'd faced off against less than a year ago - that stares down at him with nothing less than contempt written across his face. "Fuck me," He groans, wracking his brains as to how he possibly could have ended up here.

"While I appreciate the sentiment," Loki sneers, "I'd rather not." He steps back, and Tony takes advantage of that fact to slump back against the floor. He hadn't been drinking - he knows it. He hasn't had a drink in... in weeks now, Tony's sure of it. And Loki's supposed to be imprisoned...

"How'd you get me?" He asks, breathing coming heavy. The drugs (or was it a spell?) are wearing off, but his body's not taking to it gracefully. "I thought-"

"I," Loki interrupts, "did nothing of the sort. It seems we have both been brought here at the behest of another."

That takes a moment to sink in. "_You_ were abducted? Loki of Asgard, batshit supervillain extraordinaire - abducted?" He chuckles and it's clearly the wrong thing to say, but Tony can't help but find that the slightest bit funny.

And then the world's gone topsy turvy, and the next thing he knows is that his back is to the bars of the cell, Loki's hand around his throat and wearing an expression that suggests death might be too kind a thing to ask for at the moment. "You insignificant _cunt_," He rages, and Tony does his best to gasp for air around the demi-god's iron grip, "I was chained, imprisoned, stripped of my powers - tell me, what was left of me to resist?"

He can't breathe, and the force of Loki's grip has Tony seriously worried about the structural integrity of his windpipe. Things are going fuzzy again, darkness and pain overtaking him again. "Please," He gasps, "Stop,"

He's back on the floor a moment later, gasping for air like a fish out of water. There's some sort of kerfuffle going on in the rest of the cell, but he can't seem to lift his head just yet. "Unhand me," He can hear Loki command, sounds of a struggle.

There are guards there. Their shoes - heavy work boots - are the first things Tony sees, but he quickly takes in the rest. They're real bruisers, mean and tough looking, and Tony doubts they've got much in the way of brains - mooks never really seem to - but they subdue Loki with a frightening amount of ease. "You're not to harm him," One of them orders, and with that, they're retreating, locking the cell behind them once more. Quick, efficient, understated. They're professionals - the thought has Tony's chest seizing up, making it almost impossible to catch his breath. This is bad news. Really bad news.

Loki sulks. His lips are puffy, a black eye forming, and a trickle of blood from his nose slowly drying on his face – and he's holding his head carefully so that it doesn't drip, but he doesn't wipe it away either. At Tony's gaze he snaps, "I should hope that satisfied your curiosity."

"Not particularly." Tony drags himself back up to a sitting position, leaning back against the bars so that he's directly across from Loki. At the raised eyebrow that earns him, he clarifies, "Not for your sake, princess. After New York, all those people, I think you deserve a lot worse."

Loki's eyes narrow, but he scoffs. "I have no more blood on my hands than you do, Anthony Stark."

"That's the difference between you and me," He decides, putting as much ice in his tone as he can muster, "When I saw what I was being used for, I did something about it." Loki has no right to compare them as if the blame was Tony's alone, as if his hands had done the deed like Loki's had. He's fuming, but he does his best not to let Loki see it. Better not to give him any ammunition.

"Ahh, yes, because the world is simply a play-thing to you. But what about your mind? Tell me Stark, do you know what it's like to be _unmade_, from the inside out? To be crafted into a new sort of monster from the fragments that remain?" His tone is colder than anything Tony has ever heard, eyes glimmering with some kind of dark hypnotic suggestion – Tony finds himself shivering, shaking, looking away in desperation.

Loki laughs then, and it's brutal, breaking glass. "I thought not." There's something that's so wrong about it, so twisted, so...

"You are a special kind of sick puppy." Tony tells him, but he can't quite bring himself to look back over at Loki again either.

He's terrified of what he might find if he does.


	2. Chapter 2

They come for him first. Loki holds his head high, yanks his arm out of the guard's grip and cooperates when he's shoved forward. As he suspected, there are more guards waiting outside the cell, and they surround him easily. It's eerily similar – but he carries himself like he's unfazed by it all, as if the guards are there under his orders instead. Information is much more valuable than rebellion at this stage.

His eyes flick from side to side, gathering what Loki can about his surroundings as subtly as possible. The guards are barely looking at him, preoccupied with his haughty act, but there is little to take notice of either.

Everything is white, sloppily painted concrete or stone. His footsteps echo down the halls they pass, but they are all identical to the one they're in, and all completely unremarkable. Loki feels the loss of his magic keenly, digs for it within himself but can't even grasp the smallest flicker no matter how hard he tries. With it, he could map out his surroundings intimately, trace over the world to find himself, kill every soul in this place and be gone from it in seconds.

Even more though, it's an ache. A missing part of him more precious than any limb. He wants to scream, to rage, to break down the way he had when little more than a boy first confronted with his first undoing. But he doesn't. Loki knows better.

He holds to his training, his upbringing, as they finally usher him into a room. He suspects that they've walked him around several times to confuse it's location, but even that he can't be entirely sure of, as much as Loki knows he should have been able to track it. The thought disturbs him on a level he finds it hard to comprehend, something fundamentally_wrong_ at play here.

When they gesture to chair with restraints attached to the arms and legs, Loki sits and fancies it the great, golden throne of Asgard. He does not look at them as they buckle leather tight around his flesh, but he is beginning to know them apart. Less so than he needs to, than he would have if only he could twist his mind into theirs once more, but it is a start.

The room itself is unremarkable as well. He is left there in the silence with all too much time to contemplate what will come next, but there is nothing more than white walls and white floors to be seen. The whiteness of it all is beginning to drive him mad, Loki thinks.

"Ahh, Loki. So glad you could make it." He doesn't give the man the satisfaction of turning his head to look. He can control his impulses, can wait to see his captor. Loki won't give him the satisfaction of turning to look, all frightened and wide-eyed like a virgin on her wedding night. "I take it you're enjoying your stay here."

"The hospitality has been lacking." Loki replies evenly, carefully stripping all tone from his voice, "and the company sub-par."

"Yes, well." The man moves towards him; Loki can sense his movement, the slight brush of soft-soles against the floor. "It is a step up from Asgard, is it not?"

"Where steps may lead is not always as obvious as one might think." He gives nothing away, closes away the memory of his time imprisoned beneath Asgard.  
"Come now Loki," He sounds amused, stepping into Loki's line of sight finally. Loki is both relieved, and made uneasy by the revelation that this man is unknown to him, and keeps talking, unaware. "If you would prefer to be chained like an animal..." Loki glances down at the restraints holding him in response, and the man laughs. "A temporary precaution. Surely you must be curious as to why I have brought you here."

Loki levels his gaze with the man's, searching out the way his features shift, the subtleties to his expressions. "I am curious," He hedges, considering the impact of his words, "if I am to receive the truth, or simply a pretty deception."

He laughs again, eyes crinkling at the corners. He's genuinely amused by Loki's cautious, calculating demeanor. "Take my word or not, if all goes well you shall experience it for yourself in due time." He pauses to laugh again, and there's no malice in it, but Loki cannot help the chill that penetrates him to the bone. This does not bode well. "You see, who better to experiment on than a man who can become anything he chooses, yet has had the choice of the matter wrenched from him with great success on more than one occasion? What frail, damaged mind could be better suited to me than yours?"

He man reaches up, strokes Loki's cheek with his thumb. It's patronizing, it's uncomfortably intimate, and it's meant to put him ill at ease. Loki bites down on his tongue and refuses to let it affect him visibly.

"My goal is simple," He continues, and Loki finds that he can easily pay attention to the man's words even as the reasoning part of his mind begins to retreat to the recesses of his being. "to artificially create a soulmate bond."

In some part of him, Loki is relieved. That is it? But another part of him considers ramifications, concerns, mental integrity... Before he can react, a needle is being driven into his arm, plunger delivering some cocktail of substances he hasn't a hope of identifying.

"No." Loki tells him, but the man is completely silent, eyes on his watch as he waits for the drugs to take effect. "No," Loki says again, louder, but the man only puts a finger to his lips, and Loki knows it's of no use. He scrambles to collect himself instead, to throw up whatever defenses he can in his mind before the assault begins, but the drugs work fast.

"I want you to think carefully about Anthony Stark," A voice suggests, and his image swims before Loki's vision in an instant, watery and insubstantial. He can feel his head bobbing vaguely, but he seems utterly detached from his body in a way that's not altogether unpleasant. "And I want you to tell me what you most admire about him."

He gets the sense that he should resist, but his mind is already drifting apart in all of the weak places – places where it's been forced apart before, places where it's been re-written so many times that they crumble beneath the onslaught. "His mind, his wit." Loki can hear his own voice speak, but he sounds dead to his own ears, can't even feel his mouth moving.

"Good," He's too happy from the praise, knows he's caught up.

"No," He repeats. There's more he wants to say, but the words drift away from him, he can't hold them together long enough to wrap his mind – let alone his tongue – around them.

"Yes. You're off to a great start." He says something else, and Loki feels himself respond, but he's losing things, drifting in and out of it. If he could – he'd be ashamed of how quickly he's lost himself – but he can't. There's no control afforded to him, and Loki's mind is as used to being upended as the man had said. It goes easily.

He watches memories implanted in his head until he's not sure which are which, or if he's imagining the whole thing. Always, there's a demanding voice prompting him along, prying and prodding into things that make Loki's body shake as if it could defend him from this. "Tell me how you desire him," The voice commands him, caressing the most intimate parts of Loki, and he cries while he listens to himself detail how he longs to have Tony Stark, urgent and sweet in equal measure.

It's too much to try to think – all there is is Tony. In, around, between – all encompassing.

And then it's over.

"Good. You did so good, Loki." His own name burns him, and he cries out. Everything is raw, splintered, broken. He's left gasping for breath, shaking, sweating. "Relax," Someone tells him, but he can't – cant they see that? There's a pain behind his eyes, pounding against his skull, and it's growing by the minute. It feels like his head's been cracked in two.

A hand touches his face, and Loki flinches away. "Don't -" He snaps, but doesn't know how to finish, can't find the words he needs as determinedly as his mind grasps for them.

"Perhaps a sedative," He hears, as if through a fog, "Give you a little time to adjust."

There is nothing in him able to mount a protest, and the stick of another needle does little to bring Loki back from the recesses of his own mind. The darkness claims him like an old friend, then.


End file.
